


(Without) Question

by inigo1220



Series: The Ants Go Marching [3]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: First Meetings, Hair Braiding, Happy Ending, Nonbinary Character, nonbinary Fingon, questionably supportive parents
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-28
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-02-24 23:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22006441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inigo1220/pseuds/inigo1220
Summary: Modern AU. Maedhros and his siblings are meeting their Nolofinwion cousins for the first time. Maedhros isn't convinced this will end well.But it does. In fact, it's the beginning of something beautiful.AKA, how Fingon and Maedhros met and fell in love. (Hint: it involves cute scenes with the Ambarussa, fake IDs, nerdiness about a classic American novel, singing, and an amusement park)
Relationships: Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Series: The Ants Go Marching [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586407
Comments: 14
Kudos: 43





	1. Introductions

Maedhros trails after his father and mother as they walk up the porch steps, looking warily at the mansion before them. His uncle Fingolfin’s house reminds Maedhros of a home that would be featured in a puzzle: white with a wrap-around porch, a wooden swing at the front, a green door with an old knocker, ribbon wreaths at each wide window, and warm yellow light streaming from the inside. From the windows, Maedhros can see the fireplace, and he can sense the happiness in this household. Apprehension floods him, whispering in his ear that maybe his father was right: their families might be better off if left to their own devices. For Maedhros, though proud of his own family, isn’t sure that mixing the wild passion of the Fëanorians with the obviously ostentatious tradition of the Nolofinwions will end well. The tension of his father’s shoulder, the quiet of his brothers, and the way his mother nervously wrings her hands tells Maedhros that his family senses this also.

Fëanor rings the doorbell. (Even that rings musically, perfect.)

“Coming!” a cheery voice calls. Maedhros stands up straighter. The door opens soon after, and Maedhros blinks in surprise at the person before them. The young man wears a lovely blue dress that compliments his dark skin, and Maedhros looks in awe at his gorgeous curly hair that frames his face and drops just above his shoulders. The young man grins at him, and exclaims, “Hi! I’m Fingon! It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Fingon’s dress swishes about his knees when he throws his arms around Fëanor, and Maedhros bites back a laugh at the way his father stiffens then awkwardly pats Fingon on the back without returning the hug. But Fingon seems undeterred, his wide smile and bright eyes roaming over the Fëanorian brood before Nerdanel approaches, and they, too, hug. “Come in, come in,” Fingon urges, stepping aside.

Fëanor and Nerdanel walk in, but Maedhros lets his brothers go first, giving the Ambarussa a stern look. But the twins behave, and shake their cousin’s hand without comment on his attire; Curufin and Caranthir control their expressions of distaste at having to touch another human; Celegorm gives Fingon a crooked smile, the type he gives when he respects someone; and Maglor asks, “Hey, I’m Maglor. I use he pronouns; do you have a preference?”

Fingon’s smile gets even wider. “I’m good with he pronouns. Thanks for asking – and giving your own. People always forget to do that.”

Maglor rolls his eyes. “Someday people won’t be assholes.” Fingon laughs, and Maglor goes inside, and suddenly, Maedhros is left outside alone with Fingon. He steps forward to shake Fingon’s hand and realizes that Fingon is so short, he only reaches Maedhros’ chest. His eyes are a winsome light brown. Fingon extends his hand, and Maedhros takes it. Fingon’s hand is warm, and his fingers are thicker than Maedhros’. They don’t move. Maedhros’ eyes linger on his cousin’s face, drinking in each detail: his chipped front tooth, his flat nose, the slight bags under his eyes, the shimmer of his cheeks, his delineated eyebrows. Maedhros’ eyes return to his cousin’s. Fingon’s smile is gone. His eyebrows scrunch a little like he’s trying to figure something out.

“Um, it’s nice to meet you…” Fingon says slowly.

Maedhros realizes he’s been holding onto Fingon’s hand and jerks his own away. “Maedhros,” he replies hurriedly. He gives Fingon a quick smile. “It’s nice to meet you as well. I’m glad our fathers set up this dinner,” he continues smoothly. “I look forward to getting to know you and your siblings. Aredhel and Turgon, right?”

Confusion flits across Fingon’s features, but he replies with a hint of a smile: “Yes. You’re the eldest?”

“For better or worse.” Maedhros pauses. “Probably for the better,” he amends, getting a chuckle out of Fingon. Unconsciously, Maedhros’ hand twirls a lock of his hair around his finger, as his eyes drop to look more closely at the necklace Fingon wears, a square with squiggles like rays of sunlight. It’s beautiful.

A piano starts playing. Maglor. Maedhros smiles, all apprehension drained away, and his eyes return to his cousin’s questioning look. “Shall we go inside?” Fingon prompts.

“Let’s,” Maedhros smiles. Perhaps his father is wrong. Perhaps this meeting iss the beginning of something beautiful.

Indeed, dinner is an altogether pleasant affair. His uncle, Fingolfin, and his wife Anairë welcome them into the home as eagerly as Fingon – though Maedhros notes the tension with which Fëanor and Fingolfin exchange smiles. Maglor immediately impresses Anairë and Fingolfin with his chatter about the latest Broadway shows. Aredhel and Celegorm bond quickly over their sports interests. At the far end of the table, Turgon, Caranthir, and Curufin seem content to eat in silence. Maedhros catches his mother’s eye, and they exchange approving glances. Dinner is going better than either of them would have predicted.

His eyes wander to Fingon – again. Fingon is a gracious host. He listens intently to conversation and asks meaningful questions that demonstrate his attention has been on the speaker. He eats neatly, cutting each piece of food into a bite-sized chunk, before putting it into his mouth. He does not, Maedhros notes, have any meat on his plate, and he must be wearing lipstick because his cup has a little bit of rouge on the rim.

Suddenly, Fingon looks up at Maedhros, who quickly looks away. Fingolfin seems to notice Maedhros’ unease and asks kindly, “Do you play any sports?”

A couple seats down, Celegorm laughs. Maedhros manages to produce a smile. People always mean well when they ask, he reminds himself. “Not at all. The coaches made me try out for basketball when I was a freshman – I didn’t last ten minutes.”

“Nelyo fell down one time trying to swing a baseball bat,” Amrod offers. Amras stuck his tongue out at Maedhros, who glared at the twins. Thankfully, none of Fingolfin’s family laughed, though Aredhel looks amused.

“But I think the worst one was when he scored a goal on himself,” Amras smirks.

“Oh, that time he was playing goalie?” Celegorm grins. Maedhros closes his eyes.

“Not every boy’s strengths are in sports,” Nerdanel jumps in. “Maitimo is an excellent student.” Maedhros glances gratefully at his mother.

“Yes, he is not as smart as Curufin, but he will make an excellent accountant for the company someday. He pays very close attention to detail,” Fëanor interrupts. Maedhros twirls his hair around his finger. His father shoots him an irritated look, and he immediately drops his hands back into his lap. “And the day Maglor gives up his ridiculous ideas of music as a career and grows a backbone, he will likely make a tremendous human resources officer.” Across the table, Maglor continues eating as though nothing has happened, but Maedhros recognizes the slump of his brother’s back as his resignation to their father’s statement.

Yet Fingolfin’s family looks uncomfortable, so Maedhros gives them a smile to let them know he has not taken offense at his father’s words. His father is not wrong. His father knows each son’s strengths and their weaknesses well, and it is no secret in their family that Fëanor favors Curufin and is grooming him to become the head of research at the laboratory. Maedhros, with his attention to detail, will become an accountant; Maglor, with his ability to build relationships, will become a part of the HR department; Celegorm, with his confident charisma, will become a consultant. His father means well, Maedhros wants to explain; he wants them to be successful, to use their strengths productively rather than follow their passions blindly.

The Nolofinwions stay silent.

Maedhros’ father raises an eyebrow, looking directly across the table at Fingolfin now. “Do you not have futures in mind for your children?” It comes out more taunting than Maedhros thinks, hopes, his father intended.

Fingolfin’s eyes narrow slightly, but his voice is even when he replies, “Nothing more than a happy, financially comfortable future.” He turns his attention to Maedhros and gives him a warm smile that reminds Maedhros of Fingon’s. “Don’t worry, Maedhros. You know what they say, assumptions make an—” he pauses, looking amused at the eager look on the twins’ faces, “—out of you and me.” Fingolfin straightens up, looking towards Fingon. “In fact, you wouldn’t think it, but Fin’s actually the athlete among our boys.”

“I’m not a boy, dad,” Fingon corrects, rolling his eyes. “I do play pretty much year-round, though. Football in the fall, basketball in the winter, and tennis in the spring,” he continues conversationally. Maedhros looks at Fingolfin, expecting him to reprimand or at least contradict Fingon, but Fingolfin looks unperturbed. “And while I don’t have any dreams of playing professionally, I wouldn’t discount others who do.” Fingon looks at Fëanor, and Maedhros leans forward in disbelief at Fingon’s obvious retort to Fëanor’s earlier commentary. “After all, shouldn’t we pursue what makes us happy? This get-up,” Fingon gestured towards his dress, “gets me called a faggot and a he/she and whole host of other shit all day long, but I feel happy when I wear it, so I do. If music makes Maglor happy, why would it be a mistake for him to pursue that passion?”

Maedhros quickly scans the table. Nerdanel’s hand is on Fëanor’s knee. Maglor looks as shocked as Maedhros feels. Celegorm is nodding slowly; he agrees with Fingon. Curufin watches Fëanor intently; he’s waiting for Fëanor to tear Fingon down. Caranthir has just rolled his eyes; he couldn’t care less for Fingon’s opinion. Aredhel smiles at Fingon; she probably thinks the same as Celegorm. Turgon continues to eat; he seems indifferent. The Ambarussa lean forward in their seats; they are eager to know how their father will respond to such contradiction.

Fingon’s head cocks to the side, his hair bouncing with the movement, and Maedhros realizes that Fingon thinks Fëanor wants to have a conversation about this.

“First—” Fëanor starts, but Anairë cuts him off.

“Oh! Fin, darling, can you help me grab dessert from the kitchen?”

Fingon frowns, but Maedhros exhales with relief. Thank goodness for Anairë, Maedhros thinks to himself, watching as Nerdanel rubs circles into his father’s knee, trying to catch his eye. Anairë and Fingon excuse themselves, and Maedhros watches as his father brings his back to his chair, fury brought down from a boil to a simmer.

“I can see that we have very different opinions on how to raise children,” Fëanor says tightly to Fingolfin, who smiles.

“Indeed. Tell me more about this music of yours, Maglor. Do you compose? Write?”

Maedhros hides a smile and decides he likes his uncle. Maglor blossoms into conversation, and the rest of the table follows suit. With the bomb defused, Maedhros decides now would be a good time to excuse himself.

“Aredhel,” he asks quietly, “Where is the bathroom?”

“Second floor,” she spares him the two words before continuing her discussion on last year’s March Madness with Celegorm, and Maedhros excuses himself quietly. He walks back through the living room, pausing at one of the pictures on top of the fireplace. A little boy with a missing tooth and wide smile grins at him. It’s Fingon. Fingon with hair so short you can barely make out his curls, and he’s wearing a button-up shirt and a tie, and Maedhros reads the sign he’s holding: “It’s my first day of school!” Maedhros blinks. Fingon had been a very cute kid. He shakes his head at the thought, then strides past the rest of the family photos and starts ascending the steps when he hears Anairë’s voice, unnaturally stern.

“We told you to tone it down.”

Maedhros freezes but doesn’t hear a reply, so he takes a couple more steps before Anairë’s voice comes again. Maedhros stops completely, clutching the railing. “We want to support you, Fingon, but this is your first time meeting your extended family. Don’t you want it to go well?”

“Are you—” Maedhros, oddly enough, feels relieved: Fingolfin’s family seems so much more put together than his own, and it comforts him to see that even they have their arguments. “I’m not going to tone it down.” His cousin’s voice shakes slightly, but his tone is certain. “I’m not going to tone it down for people I don’t know. If they don’t like me, then whatever. I don’t have to see them again.”

There’s silence for a moment. Then, Anairë sighs. “Okay. Okay, Fingon.”

Maedhros decides it’s probably best to announce his presence, so he starts humming a song of Maglor’s as he slowly makes his way up the rest of the stairs. Fingon looks away from him, fists clenched. Anairë puts on a smile. “Yes, dear?”

“Aredhel said the bathroom was on this floor?” Though he’s speaking to Anairë, his eyes continue to flicker at Fingon, who stiffens and turns away. Anairë bites her lip, displeased by Fingon’s reaction.

“It’s just down the corridor, dear. Fin can show you.” Fingon gives her an outraged look, but Anairë ignores him and hurries down the stairs. Fingon gives him an annoyed look, and Maedhros recoils a little, wondering if Fingon knew Maedhros overheard their conversation, or if he’s just annoyed with Anairë and is taking it out on him; maybe, Fingon just needs a moment.

But when they reach the end of the corridor, Fingon yanks the door with such force he almost elbows Maedhros.

Clearly, his cousin needs more than a moment.

“Here you go,” Fingon says flatly, and Maedhros can’t help but hurt at how different Fingon sounds now than when he first welcomed them into his family’s home. Fingon turns to leave, but Maedhros gently touches his arm. “For what it’s worth,” Maedhros says softly. “I really like your dress.”

Fingon pauses, and when he turns, Maedhros sees his eyes are rimmed red and watery. His instinctual response desires to hug Fingon tightly, but Maedhros stops himself – and rightly so, for rather than looking uplifted, Fingon retorts, “You don’t need to lie to try and make me feel better. I know what you think. You think I’m a freak; and don’t even try to deny it. You’ve been staring at me when you think I don’t see you.”

Maedhros flushes. He doesn’t think it will make the situation any better to confess that he’s been staring at Fingon because, whatever his family might think of him, Maedhros thinks Fingon has the most beautiful smile, and the way his dress both wraps and swings around him never fails to catch Maedhros’ eye. “That’s not why I’m staring,” he finally mutters. Fingon scoffs, but he doesn’t move, and, finding nothing else to say, Maedhros blurts out, “I was staring ‘cause I think your hair would look even prettier with a gold ribbon in it.” Fingon stares at him. Maedhros feels a blush starting to creep across his face. “I’ve seen a lot of the girls at my school wearing their hair like that, with gold ribbon braided in. Not sure if you have any…I think it would look… nice…” he continues, feebly. Except Fingon’s facial expression flits from disbelief, to confusion, to surprise, and finally, a smile unfurls upon his features, and Maedhros feels himself relax.

Then he frowns, and Maedhros tenses.

“I do have gold ribbon,” Fingon replies slowly. “But…” He pauses, looking conflicted. “I don’t know how to braid my hair,” Fingon confesses. Maedhros’ shoulders relax again.

He grins. “I do.” 

When they come down the stairs, Fingon keeps one hand on the railing of the staircase, and the other Maedhros holds gingerly as if they were prince and princess walking down the steps. They walk down slowly, carefully, giving their families enough time to take it in: Maedhros in his red button-up and black dress pants, long, wavy hair cascading down his shoulders, and Fingon in his blue dress with golden ribbons threaded into braids that frame his face, descending the steps of the staircase with pride.

Maglor, of course, begins whistling a tune; Fëanor looks outraged (but Nerdanel gives him a quick pinch, and he schools his face into a displeased expression); Anairë looks concernedly at Fingolfin, who seems taken aback by the turn of events; but it’s Celegorm who begins clapping, and so Aredhel and the Ambarussa follow suit, and it’s not long until they make it to the bottom of the staircase, and their families are smiling at them.

Maedhros tries to let go of Fingon’s hand, but Fingon quickly grabs it back.

Maedhros looks down at their intertwined hands, the apprehension he felt at his father’s displeasure vanishing. His eyes meet Fingon’s as he brings his head up, smiling, to hold his head high.


	2. Apples and Oranges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he was little, Fingon hated fractions. Fingolfin managed to convince him to try using apples and oranges. Fingon didn't know the trick would come in handy years later--both to teach math and bring him closer to a lifelong friend.

**Apples and Oranges**

“Fuck,” Fingon groans, as the gold ribbon, once more, slips between his soaked hair and onto the floor. For months, he has been trying to braid the golden ribbons into his hair as Maedhros had, but on his own, it seems impossible: the ribbon falls out or gets so tangled in little wisps of hair that removing it hurts. With a resigned glance at the ribbon on the floor, he sighs, deciding that for today, he has tried hard enough. He picks the ribbon off the floor, but coming up, his own reflection gives him pause: his hair now falls past his shoulder, the longest it’s ever been.

In the mirror, he watches his lips turn upward into a crooked smile, as he fingers the curls—and he hopes his father won’t ask him to cut it. His internship—or, as Fingon prefers to think of it, the awkward stint at the family company—begins next week, and Fingon could not be less excited. Atya adores the world of meetings about messaging and small talk at the coffee machine, but for Fingon, the world of 9-5, behind-the-scenes droll spells nothing but boredom.

Yet Fingolfin insists Fingon try. “I will not force you to stay in the PR department,” Atya had said. “Neither do I demand you stay in the company, but I want you to have the experience, Finno. You have to be comfortable admitting when you don’t know something and being able to accept feedback respectfully.”

The implication of his father’s words is not lost on Fingon.

As he walks out of the bathroom and flops back onto his bed, pulling his phone from the shelf, he thinks to himself that, at least, perhaps this will be his chance to prove himself, to prove that he can still be a good child, even if he wasn’t what his parents wan—thought he would be. His reflection on the black mirror of his phone makes him think of Maedhros and that long red hair of his. What would it be like to be Maedhros, the perfect son?

He hasn’t spoken to Maedhros since the family reunification dinner (as he and Aredhel have chosen to call it), but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought of Maedhros consistently. Even at school, when he’s sitting with his friends and even during the first few weeks when he sat with Maglor and Maglor’s circle of friends while setting in, Fingon always found himself searching for tall redhead. Unlike Maglor, Maedhros never tried to get to know him any better. Fingon wonders, with some guilt, if he is to blame: Fingon had expected the worst of Maedhros, but Maedhros proved himself to be honorable. He asked none of the invasive questions Fingon had long learned to expect from strangers. Even the tensest moment—when Fingon brought up Fëanor’s pre-planned futures and Maedhros vehemently defended his father—ended with an incredibly diplomatic response: “He’s my father, and he has raised me and loved me despite my faults. But you owe him no loyalty. I won’t hold it against you; he’s not always any easy person to like.” And a smile.

A person like Maedhros would be perfect in public relations. A person like Fingon was the opposite of what was needed.

Startling him, his phone buzzes in his hands, screen lighting up. Speak of the devil—or his brother, at least. He taps open the message from Maglor. “Hey, wanna come over tonight and watch a movie? I’m having another friend over, too; I think you all will get along.” Fingon doubts this. Most of Maglor’s friends are just as snobby and music-obsessed as Maglor himself, but Fingon has yet to develop a close enough relationship with any of his friends to hang out on weekends; he has no plans and figures he may as well accept Maglor’s invitation.

“Sure. Will confirm with parents then let you know,” Fingon texts back. His parents won’t say no. Though Maglor, they quickly discovered, is more overzealous and competitive than his easygoing manner suggests, Anairë and Fingolfin are pleased at the friendship he and Fingon have struck up, and often ask Fingon about the second-oldest Fëanorion—though Fingon suspects their gratitude stems mostly from Maglor’s aide in ensuring Fingon’s successful start at his new school. Sure enough, his parents agree enthusiastically to his request to join Maglor and his friend, reminding him to be polite and pick up some snacks at the store on his way over and be careful while riding his bike and to be sure to call if he wanted them to pick him up so that he wouldn’t have to bike in the dark. Fingon does his best to not roll his eyes, and, finally, he heads out, pedaling gently through the forest paths.

Once, he had believed his Fëanorion cousins lived too far away to visit, that this distance was the reason for their estrangement. He knew better now—the Fëanorions’ home was a twenty-minute bike ride away from his own house—but he wondered if his cousins had ever wondered about them. With seven of them, Fingon thinks, there must not have been much desire to get to know others; that is, he amends, if they get along, or if they’re more like us.

He’s grateful for the steep uphill that meets him, all energy needed to keep him moving, none left for the dark thoughts that might cloud his mind.

* * *

He settles into the house easily. Maglor’s mother, Nerdanel, is exceedingly kind to him, pecking him on the cheek when he arrives and reminding him that their home is his home, and he shouldn’t be shy of taking anything he might want. She refrains from touching him otherwise, as she is still wearing her apron and her hands are slightly sticky with clay. Fingon finds it eccentric that everyone in the family seems to have some craft that they are dedicated to: Nerdanel to her art, Fëanor and Curufin to their science research, Celegorm to his sports, Maglor to his music, the twins to their (apparently epic) pranks, and Caranthir to the stock market. Of them all, Maedhros, once again, seems to be an outlier. Fingon inquired once as to his craft, but Maglor laughed and said only, “Acting as tribute.” Fingon understood neither how that could possibly be a craft nor what Maglor meant, yet he refrained from asking any more questions to Maglor, who seemed more interested in talking about other things.

Maglor’s friend, Daeron, Maglor informs him, is still in route. The two sit on the couch, and Maglor begins to gush over the awards the film has won and what reviewers have said of the film. It’s a Brazilian movie, which Fingon finds intriguing—and yet so like Maglor to watch a foreign film with subtitles for fun. Maglor was just beginning to opine as to the film’s representation of a person with a disability when Maedhros and one of the twins walk into the living room.

“Well, if you had finished your homework when you go home, we wouldn’t have this problem,” Maedhros is explaining, when he looks up and notes his brother and cousin with a look of surprise. “Oh. Hey, Fingon. Kano, will you all be using the living room all evening?”

“Yeah, we’re watching a movie. Not a good place to get Pityo to focus,” Maglor replies.

“Can I watch?” Pityo asks, face lighting up.

“No,” Maglor and Maedhros chorus firmly.

“Come on,” Maedhros continues, pushing his little brother forward. “We’re going to the dining room. We’re going to finish your homework, and then you are going to bed.” Fingon bites back a smile at the outraged expression on the little boy’s face. It reminds him of Turgon when Turgon was younger and got upset with Fingon for ordering him to put away his blocks so that Amil could read them their nightly story. Except Maedhros seems to have better success of convincing Pityo to do something he doesn’t want to than Fingon ever did with Turgon. The pair disappear, and Maglor quickly launches into a review of foreign film awards, none of which Fingon has ever heard of or would recognize when written down. Finally, when Maglor pauses long enough to take a breath, and Fingon feels he has asked enough polite questions, he quickly interjects: “I’m going to get some water. Want anything?”

Maglor shakes his head. Relieved, and hoping Daeron will arrive soon so that Fingon can actually watch this film and form his own opinion, Fingon walks into the kitchen, flashing a quick smile at Maedhros and the twin, neither of whom notice him. “I don’t get it. I’m stupid. I don’t understand fractions, and that’s it,” the little one says angrily. Fingon can’t help but watch out of the corner of his eye, especially when he sees the soft look on Maedhros’ face that reminds him of Atya. 

“You’re not stupid, Pityo,” Maedhros reassures. “Fractions can be really hard, but it’s only going to get harder if you don’t try to understand it now.”

“But I’m not good at math,” the little one insists. “Telu is the smart one.” Fingon quickly looks away and opens the fridge, fruitlessly pretending he wasn’t staring, when Pityo looks at him. “What are _you_ looking at, Nolofinwion?”

Fingon gapes at the child, uncertain what to reply to such a venomous remark, but luckily Maedhros steps in, “He’s just wondering why such an intelligent little boy would say such stupid things,” Maedhros chastises. “Sit. You’re not leaving until you understand.” Pityo groans, but to Fingon’s shock, the little redhead complies. Fingon returns his attention to the fridge, then realizes there’s no Brita—but he does spy some apples. Shaking his head at the thought, he closes the fridge and walks over to his cousins.

“See how the denominators are different?” Maedhros is explaining. “That one is two and this one is four, so we have to change them to make them the same—how do we do that?” Then, he looks up at Fingon: “Do you need something?”

“Um, yeah,” Fingon says, feeling Pityo’s disdain. “Where can I get water?”

“Oh, just from the tap. Atar made a filter system for all the water that comes into the house, so it’s fine to drink straight from the tap,” Maedhros explains, pride evident in his voice. Pityo smirks at Fingon’s expression of surprise.

“Oh. Alright then.”

“No problem. Cups are in the leftmost upper cabinet,” Maedhros says, then turns his attention back to Pityo. “So, what do you do?” Fingon’s lips quirk, as he fills up the cup, still watching them out of the corner of his eye. He wishes it had been that way with him and Turgon and Aredhel. Pityo is lucky to have an older brother like Maedhros. “What was that?” he hears Maedhros playfully growl.

To his surprise, when he turns around fully, Maedhros is tickling Pityo, who has curled himself up into a little ball, laughing uncontrollably, as he chokes out, “Because—I wasn’t—paying—attention—to the—teacher.” Maedhros lets him go, and Pityo gasps for breath, still giggling a little. “I’m sorry, Nelyo.” 

Maedhros glances at Fingon with a wide grin, before returning his attention to his little brother, his grin replaced by with a look of seriousness. “Then it’s going to be a long night! Okay. You have to multiple the bottom and the top number.” Fingon looks down at his glass of water. He could leave—he should leave—but between hearing Maglor ramble about foreign film awards and watching this (adorable) scene unfold, Fingon knows which one he prefers. He leans against the counter, sipping slowly at his water, as though he means to stay in the kitchen until he’s finished drinking. Once more, he stares out of the corner of his eye, pretending not to. “So, first, I multiply the half by two, both on the bottom and the top, so that it makes four on the bottom and makes two on the top, and then they’re same and I can add them!”

Fingon nearly chokes on his water at the sight of Pityo’s perplexed expression. “That makes no sense,” the little redhead says, slumping his head on the table.

“No, it does,” Maedhros insists. “If you multiply two by one, what do you get?”

“Two.” Pityto doesn’t pick his head up.

“And two by two?”

“Four.”

“Exactly. So, you end up with two fourths, which you can add to one fourth,” Maedhros says it with such enthusiasm that Fingon wants to agree, but he understands why Pityo might be confused. He hated math in the beginning as well, until his Atya taught him how to visualize everything. Fingon bites his lip, then clears his throat.

“Can I… try something?” he asks, once he has their attention. Pityo looks at Maedhros, who seems confused by the turn of events. “Can I have an apple?” Fingon tries. Maedhros nods, looking more confused than ever. “Where are the knives?”

Maedhros walks over to him and pulls out a cutting board and a knife. “Thanks. Come here… Pityo?”

“Pityafinwe to you,” Pityo corrects, none too politely, but his brother gives him a look, and Pityo walks over, a scowl clear on his face.

“Don’t hand him a knife,” Maedhros cautions. Pityo scowls at his older brother now, but Maedhros ignores him, seeming curious as to Fingon’s plan, walks over also.

“Okay, Pityafinwe. What would I do to make this half an apple?” Fingon asks, knife in hand, apple on the cutting board.

“Cut it in half, duh.”

Fingon does so. “What about into four equal pieces?”

Pityo frowns. “Cut the halves again?”

“Exactly. But your math problem says there’s only one fourth and one half, right?” Pityo nods. “Okay, so I’ll only cut one of the halves into a fourth.” Fingon slices the other half down the middle. “Show me one fourth and one half.” Pityo takes the half and the fourth and holds them up. “Great. But your older brother’s right. You have to make everything the same size before you can add it, otherwise it you’ll have to keep saying ‘one fourth and one half’ and that’s a mouthful,” Fingon comments. Pityo smiles shyly. “So how do I do that?”

“Make the half into a fourth,” Pityo replies confidently.

“Yep,” and Fingon chops the other half of the apple into a fourth. “So now how many fourths do I have?”

“Three.”

“So, what’s the answer to your math problem?”

Pityo’s eyes widen, then he beams, “Three-fourths!” But Fingon looks towards Maedhros, who is staring at him again, this time, with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Fingon?” Maglor pops his head into the kitchen, and all three turn, startled. “Oh.” He stares at Pityo, Maedhros, Fingon, and the pile of apples they collected for Pityo to finish his homework. “I was wondering where you went. Daeron arrived—I mean, if you still want to join us for the movie?” Fingon frowns slightly, noting that Maglor seems to be looking rather intently at Maedhros, who turns back around to the pile of apples.

Fingon looks at the little redhead next to him. Is everyone in the Fëanorion household tall? Maedhros towers over him, and even little Pityo reaches his chest. Pityo’s shoulders sag, but Fingon gives him a smile, then turns back to Maglor: “Um, I’ll join you all in a bit, once Pityo gets his homework done.”

“Okay. If you want to join, too, you can, Nelyo.” A wicked grin crosses Maglor’s face. “The movie is pretty gay, but your sort of low-key gay, not NSFW-y gay. I know how much that bothers you.”

Maedhros gives his brother a look Fingon thinks is a glare, but both Pityo and Maglor just snicker. “Thanks, Kano,” Maedhros says flatly. “How very thoughtful of you.” 

“You’re gay?” Fingon can’t stop himself from blurting.

“To the incredible disappointment of all of my ex-girlfriends,” Maglor sings, before disappearing back into the living room.

“All of Kano’s girlfriends end up staring at Nelyo all night whenever he brings them over,” Pityo explains, conspiratorially. “That’s why Mommy calls him ‘Maitimo.’” Maedhros clears his throat, and Fingon looks back at him, frowning, until Pityo says, “I have a lot more math problems to get to, but when I’m done, can I have caramel sauce to dip the apples into?”

“No,” Maedhros says sternly. “After you’re done, you’ll go to bed, you little monster. You should already be taking a shower and getting ready, but instead we have to teach you math since you” and he starts tickling Pityo, who squirms in his grasp, “weren’t. paying. Attention.”

“I will on Monday! I will on Monday!” Pityo shrieks, and Maedhros lets him go.

“Go get your paper.”

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Nerdanel collects Pityo from the kitchen to put him to bed, thanking Fingon profusely for his help in ensuring the youngest Fëanorion understands basic arithmetic. “You didn’t have to stay, you know?” Maedhros says softly, filling up his own glass of water, as Fingon drizzles caramel over the leftover apples. Though Pityo—as he has now permitted Fingon to call him—is prohibited from eating sweets at this hour, Fingon plans to take full advantage of the caramel sauce.

Fingon shoots him a smile. “No, I didn’t it. But that was kind of fun. My siblings never really wanted my help, but that’s how my Atya taught me fractions.”

“Really?” Maedhros smiles, grabbing a spoon to stir at the mixture of caramel and apples.

“Yeah,” Fingon snorts at the memory. “And oranges, when I got sick of apples. At one point, though, I started lying that I didn’t get it, just so we could keep at it, but then, one day, the paper and the numbers just clicked, and I stopped.” He moves to side to let Maedhros stir, watching him intently. Ever since Maglor had made the comment about Maedhros’ sexuality, Fingon thought of him differently. How silly he had been to assume that Maedhros thought him a freak; of them all, Maedhros was probably the closest one who might understand. “How did your parents react?” Fingon asks, curious. At Maedhros’ frown, he clarifies, “When you came out—I mean, you are out to them?”

Maedhros snorts. His eyes stay on the bowl, though he no longer stirs. “My father and mother knew before I did, actually. They were both great about it. My mom took charge of giving me the talk, and my dad—” Maedhros face softens, as he looks down to Fingon. “He could tell it bothered me, and he talked to me a lot about it. I really thought they’d be upset, you know, me being the oldest, them being obsessed with having more kids in the house, I figured they’d be upset that I wasn’t going to be—that I wouldn’t have any of my own, I guess, but every day, he reminded me that he was proud of me no matter what, and as long as I married a guy that was smart and treated me like I deserved, he couldn’t care less.” A pause. It sounded nothing like the Fëanor Fingon had imagined, yet it helped him understand why Maedhros loved his father. “What about you? I mean, assuming—sorry, I realize I don’t actually know how that works since you’re… nonbinary?”

Fingon nods. “I identify as pan. I don’t really care for gender,” he replies, surprised to find himself not at all on edge for such a personal discussion. “I think the not being a girl or a boy is really what freaks my parents out. They just don’t really get it. I mean, they’re generally supportive, but it took them a while come around… we’re a pretty traditional family.” Maedhros nods and silence falls in the kitchen once more.

“I heard I might be seeing you around more often,” Maedhros suddenly says. Fingon cocks his head in response. “Atar told me, well, it doesn’t matter. I just heard that you were starting an internship in PR.”

Fingon sighs. “Unfortunately.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s not the place for me,” Fingon replies firmly. Maedhros stares at him, and Fingon feels compelled to explain: “Public relations is all about making everyone happy—you have to say the right thing, look right, or righteous, really, to outsiders. That’s not me. I mean, who cares if the company donated a thousand dollars to an animal shelter when we apparently made several million last quarter? I’m not saying that the donation was wrong, but it just seems disingenuous to me to give money away, not because you care about the issue, but because you want to look good.” Maedhros nods slowly, and Fingon surprises himself with his next words: “Besides, it’s not like I’ll ever fit in at a normal job anyway.”

“Why not?”

Fingon raises his eyebrows. “Can you imagine how many old Noldor are going to stare at me when I tell them not to call me ‘mister’? Or when I point out that gender is not a binary, or wear a dress to work?” Maedhros mulls over this, and Fingon braces himself for the worst. You asked for it by dressing like a girl. Why don’t you be the one to change it all?

“You’re right,” Maedhros says, and Fingon blinks. “I’ll speak to Atar about this. I believe it’s written in our diversity statement that discrimination on the basis of gender presentation is prohibited, but we all know those statements aren’t always the reality. I’ve found that most people don’t take company seminars seriously, so I don’t think doing a seminar on it would be helpful. Do you think it would be an easier transition for you if we did a reminder email of the dress code, that employees are welcome to dress as they wish provided their attire remains, minimum, business casual and appropriate to their job?” Fingon stares in silence, so Maedhros continues, “Has your father briefed you on the human resources department or registering a complaint with the ombudsman?”

“No…”

Maedhros smiles. “That’s okay. Sorry. I’ve been at the company since freshman year; you’ll learn all of these things soon—you seem really smart. If it helps, I’m happy to wear a dress in solidarity,” Maedhros grins.

Fingon laughs, and it occurs to him that Maedhros would probably look incredibly attractive in one, too—and Fingon is grateful that he doesn’t blush easily. “I think the email reminder would be helpful, but I suppose I shouldn’t assume malintent.”

Maedhros shrugs, grabbing the bowl of apples off the counter, holding it in his arms now. “Unfortunately, I don’t think you’re wrong. I’ve gotten a lot of comments about my hair. But, anyway, we should probably go to this movie before we get in too late… If you’d find it useful, I’d be happy to chat with you more about the company, if you’re nervous, I mean. I know I was.”

Fingon smiles, taking a caramel-covered apple slice from the bowl. “I’d appreciate that,” he says, biting down, and following Maedhros into the living room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I never planned to elongate "(Without) Question" but I recently mapped out the stories that I wanted to include as a part of this series. That involves "(Without) Question" becoming the "how Fingon and Maedhros fell in love" story and will be about five chapters long. SO. MUCH. FLUFF. Are you ready? I'm maybe ready?


	3. Chocolate and Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their conversation about Fingon's new transition to the family corporation, Fingon and Maedhros meet over coffee to get to know each other better. While their families might have issues between them, Maedhros begins to think he could consider Fingon family.

**Chocolate and Coffee**

“I was surprised you actually messaged me to meet,” Fingon confesses, as they sit at a quieter table near the front of the café. Fingon asked to sit in the sunlight, and Maedhros wonders how long it will be until his skin begins to redden – but his mind finally processes Fingon’s comment, quickly bringing him back to the present.

“Why?” he asks, startled. “I wouldn’t have offered if I hadn’t meant it.” He looks down at his black coffee (no sugar, no milk, no creamer), wondering if he should drink, but Fingon hasn’t gotten his mocha (with two shots of espresso and whipped cream on top) and it would be rude to drink without him. Though it’s the weekend, he’s been up since six to get some driving practice in with his mother, and coffee is exactly what he needs right now.

Fingon’s eyebrows quirk with interest. “Well, people just say things sometimes, doesn’t mean they’ll go through with them.”

Maedhros shakes his head, his fatigue waning, as the desire to reassure his cousin takes over: “I take my commitments seriously,” he asserts. “I have already spoken to Haru Mahtan and Atar, actually.” With a mixture of satisfaction and wonder, Maedhros notes how Fingon’s eyes widen in surprise. Did Fingon expect so little from him? Was it because he had learned about the problems between Nolofinwë and Atar? Maedhros had hoped for a pleasant start with his cousin, but if Fingon knew of the issues between their fathers – well, Maedhros couldn’t fault him for taking his father’s side.

“What did they say?” Fingon’s words burst with ill-concealed pleasure and hope.

“Haru Mahtan is still a bit confused about the concept of non-binary, to be honest.” Maedhros keeps a neutral expression, though he is wary of bringing up grandfathers. After all, Nolofinwe came alone to the funeral of Haru. Maedhros had long wondered if the rest of the Nolofinwions and Arafinwions bear a grudge against their late grandfather, Finwe. Still, Haru Mahtan's influence on the board -- despite his having long retired from the research arm that Feanor now headed -- makes him a necessary ally to Fingon. “But Haru said that he would be happy to write an email reminding employees about the lack of gendered dress code,” Maedhros continues. “He even mentioned that your father could try to work the media to make the changes in our company be highlighted as a company doing policies right.” 

“That’s great!” yet suspicion appears on his features, confusing Maedhros momentarily until Fingon asks, more quietly, “And your father?”

A sliver of annoyance crawls up Maedhros’ spine. Sure, Fingon has not had a positive experience with his father, but his father is no bigot. Maedhros shrugs, an exaggerated, uncharacteristic gesture, followed by a nonchalant, “Atar looked at me like I had grown an extra head, then asked if you were competent” – _despite being Nolofinwë’s child_ , had been his father’s exact words, but Fingon did not need to know that – “and I said, yes, and he replied, ‘Then who cares what he wears as long as he does the work well.’” Maedhros takes advantage of Fingon’s surprised silence to add in firmly, “I know he’s a hard man to like, but my father is no bigot.”

Fingon cocks his head slightly, looking as if he might reply something when the barista calls his name, and Fingon shoots Maedhros a smile before quickly going to the counter. Deciding it’s now appropriate to start on his own drink, Maedhros takes a sip of his drink, now at the perfect temperature. Clouds have overtaken the sky, and Maedhros is suddenly glad of Fingon’s choice of seat. He likes watching as people go by, walking their dogs or hustling down the sidewalk, earbuds in, while having the background noise of others’ conversations: it’s all of the noise and crowds he wants with none of the responsibilities that come with being surrounded by a crowd (of nine family members) and noise (of obnoxious brothers) at home.

“I picked up a brownie and a slice of coffee cake. Wasn’t sure what you like,” Fingon announces as he sits back down, placing a plate with both pastries between them. Maedhros makes a noise of surprise, which Fingon doesn’t seem to notice, as he continues, taking a chunk of brownie: “I love everything chocolate. Brownies are my favorite. I used to ask my parents for brownies instead of cake for my birthday,” he laughs. “One time I asked for a brownie ice cream cake with chocolate ice cream; my parents looked everywhere for one and ended up having to custom order it.”

There’s silence for a moment, as Maedhros tries to understand. Other than Maglor, no one in his family is talkative, much less would anyone casually share such information about family with someone who was practically a stranger. Was this a Nolofinwion quality?

The silence stretches, and Maedhros decides to play along. “Are birthdays a big deal in your family?” Maedhros asks, nibbling on a bit of coffee cake. Despite frequenting this coffee shop, he’s never tried any of the cakes or pastries at this shop. He hadn’t, he realized, eaten breakfast either.

Fingon finishes chewing, lifting a hand in pause, and wiping his mouth before replying, “When we were little, yes. Atya and Amil liked to spoil us with big parties and bouncy houses, the whole nine yards. One year, I managed to convince them to do a princess theme, even,” Fingon grins. “They were a bit concerned about what the other parents would think, but I think the other kids had prepped them for it.”

“How about you?” Fingon asks, after a beat. “Did your family do big celebrations?”

“Atar and Amil kept it simple. A family dinner, cake. But, Haru Finwe would go all out,” Maedhros grins fondly, remembering the time Haru showed up unannounced with first-class tickets for the entire family to New York City, an impromptu weekend trip, complete with front row seats to a Broadway show, a private tour at MoMA and dinner at Daniel to celebrate Maglor’s last birthday. They’d even gone to an ice cream parlor – which their parents never allowed – and ordered the largest milkshakes they could find. Still grinning at the memory, Maedhros takes a sip from his coffee, in doing so looks back at Fingon – and realizes his mistake.

His cousin’s previously warm expression has been replaced by a tight smile. “I never met Grandpa Finwë,” Fingon remarks trying to sound conversational, but Maedhros notes the edge in his voice. Before Maedhros can find the right words, Fingon continues, “But I suppose he was always more interested in your father than mine, so that tracks.” Maedhros looks down, staring at the coffee cake, feeling rather not interested in the yummy treat. “Don’t worry,” Fingon says, and Maedhros looks up to see a pensive expression on Fingon’s face, as his cousin ( _half_ -cousin, he reminds himself) drinks from his mocha. “I don’t bear a grudge against you or your family for it. I don’t regret not getting to know Finwë either – after all, why wish you’d gotten to know someone who wished you didn’t exist?”

Maedhros knew the last statement had been a throwaway comment, but he couldn’t stop himself from replying tersely, “If you never met him, how can you know he wished that?”

“If he didn’t, seems to me he would have bothered to meet me,” Fingon replies coldly. Maedhros opens his mouth to defend his--their-- late grandfather – “Maedhros,” – but Fingon’s tone is so sharp Maedhros finds his voice stuck in his throat. “I am really not interested in talking about him.” Fingon’s voice softens a fraction, “You seem decent, and it’s not your job to defend him or answer for him as to why he decided to not get to know me or my siblings, or our other cousins.” Maedhros stares, too surprised by Fingon’s words to think of anything to say, and Fingon looks uncertain for a moment. “Can we just drop it?” Fingon finally proposes. “I apologize if you thought I was too harsh with my assumption that he wished I didn’t exist. That’s how I feel, though, and you are not going to argue with me about my feelings. Okay?”

Maedhros nods slowly, taking another sip of coffee. Fingon nods back but an uncomfortable silence settles, even as Fingon tries to smile as he reaches for another piece of brownie. He does like Fingon so far, and he supposes Fingon is right that one shouldn’t argue with another about their feelings – no matter how vehemently Maedhros disagrees with the statement that it’s not his job to defend his late grandfather. Of course, it is. Haru was his family. He was the one who stuck by their side even when their family had no friends. He was the one who always supported Atar. Fingon might not know that or understand that, but Maedhros knows what it means to be family – but perhaps Nolofinwions have a different definition.

Fingon clears his throat, uncomfortable, and Maedhros realizes he has allowed the silence to fester. He needs to be the one to break it, to let Fingon know that they are alright.

But Fingon isn’t family. He’s practically a stranger. What is there to talk about?

Finding nothing else to say, Maedhros finally manages, “How’s school? Freshman year a tough adjustment?”

Fingon shrugs, taking another sip of his drink, and Maedhros’ right hand begins fidgeting with his hair, the earlier ease of their conversation seemingly vanished. “I don’t think it’s been too much of adjustment,” Fingon replies finally. “Maglor was really nice and let me hang out with his artist friends until I found my own people. I joined the soccer team for the fall, and the other players seem alright. I think they just need some time to adjust to me,” Fingon frowns. “I’ll be fine, though. I’m thinking of joining Speech and Debate, as well, but I’m not sure yet.”

Maedhros hesitates. Clearly family is a touchy subject but Maedhros wonders how different exactly their families are: “Your father doesn’t mind that you’re only participating in sports?”

Fingon frowns, then seems equally curious. “No… Atya has always let us do whatever we want. I never got involved in any clubs other than sports in middle school, and he never cared. Turgon’ll probably join drama club to do set construction once he’s old enough, and Aredhel hates clubs, so she never does any of that stuff. Why? Does your father require you to be in a certain number of clubs?”

The way Fingon says it, Maedhros can tell he meant the comment as a joke, and Maedhros laughs – despite the fact that Fingon is more right than he knows. “Not exactly, but, yes. Dad is very insistent that we try everything. Hence my failed attempt at basketball freshman year.”

“What clubs are you involved in then?”

“Speech and Debate, actually,” Maedhros admits. “Yearbook, tutoring at the middle school, the GSA, and the Academic Decathlon.” Fingon stares, and Maedhros looks down at the half-eaten coffee cake between them to break eye contact. Given that he and Fingon are related, he certainly expected there would be fewer differences between them, yet, clearly, Atar was right during dinner when he said that Fingolfin had raised his children differently. Maedhros looks up, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of coffee cake.

Fingon nods slowly, trying to control his facial expression. “You must be the golden boy of your family,” he says finally, and Maedhros wants to laugh, but something in Fingon’s tone stops him. Fingon sounded – sad, almost.

“Absolutely not. I’m the least special person in my family,” Maedhros replies seriously. It’s a not a lie. Unless managing six little brothers can be counted as a talent, Maedhros would be the first to admit that he is the least impressive member of his family.

“You do everything from academic tournaments to nice things like tutoring little kids, but you’re not impressive?” Again, Maedhros senses that Fingon means his words sarcastically, but he doesn’t understand how right he is.

“Maglor has performed in concerts abroad, even for charity causes. Curufin is a literal genius; he doesn’t even go to school because he’s working college classes online and doing an internship in the laboratory with Atar. If Celegorm wanted to, he could compete internationally in shooting. Even Carnistir – who’s eleven, mind you – he got involved in the stock market with seed money from Haru, and in the last year, he’s almost tripled the money.” At Fingon’s shocked expression, Maedhros lifts and drops his shoulders. “Trust me, I’m the least impressive member of the family.” He says it with a smile, though the feeling of discomfiture that comes with the knowledge that his younger brothers are much more to brag about than he is – and will ever be – sits upon his shoulders, slumping them down.

At least he will always be loyal, his subconscious whispers. He will always keep his commitments. He will always fight for his family. He will always make them proud.

Maedhros reaches to take another piece of coffee cake, but his hunger has vanished. His hand slides back to his coffee cup, and he tries for another smile, as Fingon watches him. His cousin frowns, drinking deeply from his sugar laced with coffee.

Just as Maedhros is about to speak, Fingon declares, “You don’t need to be most impressive to be impressive, you know? Just because you aren’t some world-renowned musician or athlete or genius, doesn’t mean you’re not accomplished.”

“Oh…um, thanks.”

Fingon breaks into a wide smile, wide as the first one Maedhros ever saw welcoming their families together. They look at each other, shy smiles on both their faces, a silence settling again but this time one that felt amicable. Fingon munches on the last piece of brownie, as Maedhros sips the last of his coffee and looks out the window again. The sidewalk is even more crowded now, the sun having returned, and yet Maedhros barely glances at each person, his gaze returning to his cousin. Fingon didn’t braid his hair. Maedhros wonders if that might be an opportunity for them to meet again. 

That’s silly, Maedhros chastises himself. You can’t just say, hey, Fingon, want to get together again so I can do your hair?

Fingon’s phone vibrates. The noise startles them both, and Fingon makes a small noise upon reading the message. “Oh, sorry, I have to go in a couple minutes,” his cousin says, neatly stacking his mug on the now-empty brownie plate. “Finrod has a soccer game today, so Uncle Ara is coming to pick me up in a bit.”

“Oh, I didn’t know Finrod played soccer,” Maedhros says. He hasn’t even met Finrod. For whatever reason, Atar is even more opposed to them meeting their Arafinwion cousins than he was his Nolofinwion cousins.

“Yeah. He’s no Olympian, but he plays pretty well…” Fingon’s lips twitch in a scowl. “Honestly, I’d invite you to come with, but… I don’t know how you’d feel about that.” Maedhros holds back a sigh. Atar was already unaware that he had come to meet with Fingon, and he would likely be unhappy if he found out about it. He was already irritated with Maglor for inviting Fingon over last week. He could lie, but he wouldn’t.

“I appreciate the invite, but I do have plans,” Maedhros replies, diplomatically as he can, and he’s pleased to see Fingon’s face fall, just a little. Fingon nods and gives him a little smile, standing up and pushing in his chair. Shoot, what’s his excuse for seeing Fingon again? He stands, too, the distance between them making Fingon seem even shorter.

“Well, it was cool to hang out with you,” Fingon says.

“Same,” Maedhros replies quickly, mind reeling with possible reasons for them to connect in the future.

Fingon puts his hands in pockets. “Maybe we can do this again sometime?” he asks.

Maedhros nods, a little too eagerly, he chastises himself. “Yes, absolutely,” he blurts, finding words. 

Fingon grins, but Maedhros notes that Fingon seems oblivious to Maedhros’ joy. Or perhaps he is just being kind. “It’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t a sibling. I’ve always kind of resented the fact that Turgon got Finrod to hang out with, but I didn’t have a cousin my age,” Fingon shares. “I thought Maglor might, but—well, we just have different interests, I guess.”

Maedhros snorts. “Yeah, it takes a particular sort of person to be Maglor’s friend. I don’t think you’re it.”

“Me neither,” Fingon agrees, chuckling. He pulls his cell phone out again, opening it with a few quick taps, then handing it to Maedhros who takes it with a smile and punches in his number.

“Fingon!” A young boy with a bright smile and a soccer jersey runs up to them. He stops abruptly at the sight of Maedhros who stares back. This must be Finrod. “Hi,” the younger boy says, glancing questioningly at Fingon.

“Finrod, Maedhros. Maedhros, Finrod. Maedhros is one of our Feanorion cousins,” Fingon explains hurriedly.

“Oh!” Is smiling such wide smiles a trait of both Nolofinwions and Arafinwions? “It’s really nice to meet you, Maedhros! Wow, you’re super tall! Do you play any sports? I play soccer.”

Maedhros smiles despite himself. Finrod seems like a sweet kid, as energetic as Celegorm without the attitude. “I don’t play sports,” Maedhros replies. “But it’s nice to meet you, too. You have a soccer game today?”

Finrod nods excitedly.

“Who are you playing?”

“Oh, just another neighborhood team. They’re supposed to be really good, but I think we’re gonna win,” Finrod exclaims. A honk from a car, startles the trio. “Oh, that’s Atya. I think he’s worried we’re going to be late. My Atya hates being late to things.” Maedhros chuckles. “Anyway, we should get going, Finno. It was nice to meet you, Maedhros. You’re always welcome at our games, and at our house, I’m pretty sure!”

Maedhros wants to snort at the absurdity. They were cousins, family – why was this so complicated? Finrod walks to the door, but Fingon stands at the table, as if he could read Maedhros’ mind. “I’ll text you,” Maedhros says, trying to pretend he wasn’t just thinking about the issues between their families.

Fingon nods. “I know.”

Though Fingon’s smile is much smaller than any other smile Maedhros has seen on his face, Maedhros feels a sense of accomplishment: he can see it in Fingon’s face—Fingon believes Maedhros will keep his promise.


End file.
